


Rival Acts

by Laurasauras



Series: AO3 Anniversary Flash Fiction [27]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-07-08 02:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15920988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: John has a Friday evening comedy set. The act after him is an obnoxious DJ. They've been trading escalating pranks and passive aggressive acts until last night, when they actually hit each other for the first time.Now they're going to work this out ... Physically.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meister (CruelInsanity)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CruelInsanity/gifts).



> ultistes-meister asked:  
> BroJohn. I dunno how, but I need some. Either fluff or nsfw, whichever you prefer for it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John works at a hipster bar as a comedian. He fucking hates the ventriloquist rapper who he is forced to share the stage with. Pranks ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Fitzroy is a suburb of Melbourne because that fits and now I'm hearing Bro talk in an Aussie accent. So, you're welcome for sharing Aussie Bro with you. It doesn't really change him that much. Australia is the Texas of the world.

 

The bar that was John and Bro’s workplace, as well as their battlefield, was so hipster that the owners had never bothered to name it. It was in Fitzroy, underneath an antique store, and the fairy lights around the door were as ironic as they were useful. Without them, there was no indication that the door was anything. It looked like the kind of door that a minimum wage employee would have to wedge a broken brick behind to avoid being locked out from when taking out the bins.

The bar always had a live performer of one kind or another. Some were iffy, some were plain weird and some were popular enough to have a cult following. Bro’s act, in the coveted Friday 10pm slot, was all three.

When John had started doing his stand-up a year ago, like all newbies, he was put on the Wednesday lunch shift. He took the offered waitering position as well, because the $20 he made for the hour-long comedy show was (while incredibly validating to his lifelong dream) not enough to do much more than pay for lunch. He’d gotten to know the other acts, at first in order to chat with the customers about who was coming up, but soon as co-workers and friends. It was amazing to know so many people who had similar interests as him! He’d assumed that Bro, in possession of the most prized slot and therefore  _ pretty damn interested _ in performing as well, would be another friend. Hell, from afar he was even attractive. Until John clued onto the fact that Bro clearly thought he was superior to everyone and didn’t have time for the plebs with their lesser performances and their chatting.

It took almost the full year for John to get the time slot right before the main event that was Bro’s show, and he was really proud that he made it that far that fast. John thought his act was probably so popular because it was incredibly silly. Most of the other comedians liked to talk about current events, but frankly, the news depressed John and despite the long-standing tradition of encouraging change through performance art, he couldn’t see that he would be able to add to that. The people who came on Fridays to drink and listen to comedy as a warm-up to the main event of a ventriloquist rapper were  _ not _ going to get any more left-leaning.

God, John hated him and his stupid puppet. 

Even once John had proved himself a consistently talented comedian, and a pretty great waiter as well, Bro was  _ still  _ a complete dick. He absolutely refused to interact with anyone who didn’t meet the required level of cool. Which, again: ventriloquist rapper. Bro didn’t meet  _ any  _ required level of cool.

So, when John was forced to interact with him every week due to their neighbouring timeslots, he couldn’t help but retaliate against the continued dickishness.

The first time he set himself against Bro was actually an accident. The previous act had been a bit quiet, so John had gone to the sound system and turned the volume for the microphone up. He hadn’t known how to do it and had kind of guessed. Bro had fixed it within five minutes, but he was clearly pissed about having to do anything outside his own stuff. John had apologised, of course, but that hadn’t stopped Bro from  _ somehow _ taking the stool that John sat on without anyone noticing and shortening one of the legs just enough to make it wobble violently whenever John shifted his weight. Which, considering he gestured pretty dramatically as he spoke, was quite a lot. He didn’t fall, but he came close and it threw him off.

So John had done the classic  _ thumbtack on the seat _ deal before Bro’s act.

And Bro had snuck a whole bunch of salt into John’s water. 

They kept it petty and lowkey for a really long time. Neither of them mentioned it to management, though Bro’s creepy puppet sometimes rapped about someone matching John’s description and John did tell the audience of the time he managed to throw a pie in Bro’s face.

#

All this came to a head on Friday, when John was on edge. He hadn’t planned a new prank and it was his turn. Which would be fine, except Bro was wearing a grin that would make sharks say, “woah, hey, that’s a bit creepy, mate.” He never smiled, so this meant that he had something planned. And John had no idea what it was.

He cornered Bro at first opportunity, blocking the hallway that lead to the tiny room at the back that the owners generously called a greenroom. 

‘What have you done?’ John asked.

Bro tilted down the horrific sunglasses that he wore all the time (Inside! At night! What a prick!) to look at John over the top of them.

‘Gonna need you to be more specific, small-fry,’ he said.

John knocked Bro’s dumb baseball cap off his head with an annoyed flick of his fingers. Bro raised his eyebrow but made no move to pick it up.

‘You’re all … smiley,’ John said. As he spoke, he realised how ridiculous it was to yell at someone for smiling. Maybe he was paranoid. On the other hand, maybe Bro was conspiring against him. ‘Seriously, dude, my dad’s in the audience tonight, could you not?’

Bro smiled even wider. His canines were just a bit pointier than most people’s; it gave him the impression of a wolf who would just love to divert John from grandma’s house. It made John’s stomach swoop with what was  _ definitely  _ just anxiety.

‘Maybe I didn’t do anything,’ Bro said. ‘Maybe I’m just happy.’

‘You’re never happy.’

‘Maybe I got  _ laid _ ,’ Bro drawled. ‘My life doesn’t revolve around you, Jim.’

John glared at him suspiciously. 

‘You got anyone else you know comin’ for the show?’ he asked. 

This did not bode well. John wondered if he could somehow get the couple of friends he had in the audience to bail, or how he could possibly explain it to his dad. Maybe he could tell his manager that he was sick and couldn’t perform. She’d be pissed, but any of the wait-staff would be glad to take his place. 

Or maybe Bro was double bluffing him, trying to make him cancel for no reason. Being unreliable was a sure-fire way to get your act dropped. Did Bro hate John enough to try and get him fired? Was that really where this petty feud was going? It had been kinda fun for John so far, but he didn’t want to risk his job, not in any serious way. 

‘Hey, Jerry, you hear me?’ Bro asked. ‘I asked if you got company tonight. ‘Sides your old man.’

‘Why d’you want to know?’ John asked. ‘It’s not even your turn!’

Bro bent down and picked his cap off the floor. He put it on backwards, which was somehow even worse than the way he usually wore it, then grabbed John at the top of his arms. Before John could call for help or fight back somehow, Bro picked him up and turned so that John was in the greenroom and Bro was in the narrow hallway, his path unobstructed. 

John was suddenly very aware of how much bigger Bro was than him. It was something that was hard to ignore anyway, but John had always passed that realisation off as a disparaging thought about how much of a douchebag gym rat Bro was. 

‘Babe, if you’re sticking to turns, you just know I’m gonna win, don’t ya?’ he said, leaning down patronisingly so they were at eye level. He gave John a saucy wink over the top of his shades, then turned away and swaggered in the direction of the bar. 

John was filled with the same wired nervousness he always was after any confrontation with Bro, but it was compounded into full-on panic for several reasons.

The first being that the man he had booby trapped with a bucket of Fanta last week could apparently pick him up and move him around as if he weighed as much as his dumb puppet. That made him feel particularly anxious, considering they’d been steadily escalating the seriousness of their pranks. (The Fanta had stained Bro’s usually blond hair orange for at least the weekend, something that had made John laugh at the time, but now …)

The second reason for full-on panic was that they apparently weren’t taking turns, so inviting friends and family when it was still John’s turn was no longer a safe option. 

The third was  _ what the hell did Bro have planned? _

The fourth was that John might have been proudly bisexual, but he still had standards, and rapping puppeteers were not eligible for admiration of any kind. And yet a tiny,  _ tiny _ voice in his head was kindly pointing out that Bro had the same kind of hotness that show-offs at the skate park have. That cocky,  _ I-don’t-give-a-shit _ attitude combined with just enough skill to show that they might possibly care about something, even if it’s only skating. Or puppets. Jesus Christ, that should have been enough to nip the not-even crush right in the bud.

Luckily, John was very used to not thinking about things that were bothering him. He didn’t even remember what denial meant.

He took a deep breath and did a last minute reread of his cue cards. He bounced on his toes and grinned to himself, getting in the zone, trying to shake off any emotions besides excitement. He walked out to the main bar and took his place on the stage. 

Since the stool had become a common target of the prank war, John had abandoned it. He adjusted the microphone stand slightly and grinned to the crowd, waving to the table where his dad and friends were sitting. A second later he realised that might not have been his smartest move. 

He pushed down his nervousness again and focused on his act. Half an hour in, he stepped back to take a proper drink of water. In the pause before he went back to his spot, Bro, missing his cap and shades and actually looking somewhat presentable for the first time in John’s memory, jogged onto the stage holding his hand up apologetically. 

John froze. He had no idea how to stop him.

‘As the regulars will know, John and I share the stage on Fridays.’

John jolted. It was the first time he had ever heard Bro say his real name. 

‘We’ve gotten pretty close over the last couple months,’ Bro continued, looking back at John and grinning that same wicked grin he’d shown off before. This time, instead of looking predatory, it looked  _ conspiratorial _ . It looked like John was  _ in _ on this. John was aware that his mouth was open in bafflement, but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

‘John’s real passionate about his comedy, and my show is the most important thing to me too, so I thought this would be the most fitting way … well.’ Bro turned away from the microphone and looked at John instead. He was close enough that it would still pick up his words. ‘You frustrate the hell out of me, but I love it. And I want you to frustrate me forever.’

He knelt down on one knee. John’s hands flew up to his face in alarm and he took a step back. Oh god. His  _ dad _ was in the audience. This looked  _ planned _ . He had no idea what to do. A glance at the audience showed him that at least half a dozen people were pointing their phones at the spectacle.

Bro pulled a ring out of his pocket and held it up to John, grinning at him with absolute satisfaction and confidence. 

‘Check fucking mate, bastard.’


	2. Chapter 2

He pushes you against the wall with the same force as he did last night, but this time instead of punching you in the guts, he twists his fingers in your shirt and kisses you roughly. You open your mouth for him immediately, reaching your tongue to meet his aggressively. You pull at his dumb spikey hair, knocking off his cap and grind your hips up to meet his.

He breaks apart from your mouth to bite at your neck before picking you up by the ass and pressing you firmer into the wall. You hook your legs around his hips so you don’t fall down and roll your head back so he can keep sucking at your neck.

‘This doesn’t change anything,’ you gasp.

He chuckles against your throat, kissing your adam’s apple.

'Course not,’ he says. 'Don’t be gettin’ sappy on me.’

You pull his chin up so you can kiss him again and he rocks his hips against you as though you’re dancing to one of his stupid songs. Though, admittedly, you probably wouldn’t get quite this close on a dance floor. The fact that you’re still in the club and you can hear music filtering through the closed doors into what the manager generously calls the green room is making you nervous. But just like last night, when you punched him hard enough that his shades don’t quite cover the bruise and he almost made you throw up with a return jab (almost exactly where you’re being kissed senseless now) you’re struggling to care about the public venue.

'This is a much better way of expressin’ my frustrations,’ he drawls. He presses his hand to your stomach where it’s still tender from his punch. Somehow when you can feel his dick against yours, the hurt takes on a very different feel.

'That mean—’ you gasp as he slides his hand up your shirt and pinches at your nipple at the same time as he presses his forearm into your bruise. He’s such a _dick._

 _'_ Go on, sugar,’ he says.

You bite his lip and he groans, pressing into you even more.

'Does that mean I get to frustrate you more?’ you ask.

He tilts his neck in clear invitation for you to kiss it, so you do. His stubble scratches your tongue in a fascinating way.

'Dunno if you could frustrate me more than you already do,’ he says. 'With your shit jokes and your ass just always _there_.’

He squeezes your ass in emphasis.

'I’ll get creative,’ you tell him.

'You’ll git quiet and maybe I’ll suck you off.

You shut up and he puts you down. He doesn’t _say_ anything, but you can see the smug praise all over his face anyway.

'I win if you scream,’ he says.

Oh fuck. You kiss him as his fingers unbutton and unzip your jeans. He licks his lips and gives you a smirk that shows just enough of his teeth to get the impression of pointier canines than you’d like to see from someone who’s about to put his mouth around your dick before he drops to his knees.

You are absolutely going to lose this battle.


End file.
